


You Are Enough

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, I REGRET NOTHING
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2019-08-06 13:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16388582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: In her hurry to escape one potentially life-threatening situation, Tyta runs full-tilt into an even greater danger. From the frying pan into the fire, she knows not on whom to count, only that any fall she takes will be solely hers especially when she declares herself firmly in one camp rather than the other.AU! In the midst of a great scandal, small scandals abound.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cold feet pushed themselves against the warm skin of her calves and Tyta gave a squeak. Half-awake and none too pleased at having her sleep so rudely interrupted, she turned with some ire towards the culprit, thinking to give whoever it was a piece of her own mind. But the moment her eyes met the earnest, wide-eyed gaze of her younger brother, her anger deflated, leaving her feeling oddly queasy.

“What is the matter then, Perwyn?” she questioned gently, chiding herself for having so reacted to his arrival. She smoothed back errant curls, somewhat envious that the tyke had gotten so fair a feature from his dame.

“He’s back,” whined the boy, subtlety lost on him. He hid his face further into her chest pressing against tender breasts. Tyta held back a hiss of pain and concentrated on stroking his fine head of hair, her fingers combing again and again over the same path. There was only one man who could put such fright into the poor soul and she shuddered to think what his return meant.

“There now.” Tyta was ever disposed to think ill of the many irascible characters making up the bulk of her family. The fair few who had yet to be corrupted failed to follow the paths trailed by their elders merely by mistake, to her mind. Take Perwyn, for example, who had just passed from toddler to young child and had yet to shed the sweetness of his disposition for more befitting qualities in their environment. But then her brother yet had a mother on this earth and was, as such, among the privileged. Where he was to remain until their father wore Bethany Rosby out and went in search of another young thing to work his wiles upon.

Pressure lessened against her chest and she breathed easily, the pain letting up as well. “Try to sleep, aye?” She could only pray that Benfrey was not plagued by similar fears and had not dared climb out of his bed in search of her. In faith, she hadn’t a clue as to why Perwyn insisted upon hanging about her, but she was obliged nonetheless to give in least she be found without some task or another. It was dangerous to be entirely too free within the walls of the Twins.

Wrapping an arm about the child, she twisted until he lay against her, tucked into her side. Staring up at the ceiling, Tyta wondered if Morya had sent word to their kin and if so why it was that she had. Black Walder would not let a challenge go. It was the height of folly to be so very blind to consequences. But then might be she was counting on her husband-to-be to look out for her. It was something that Morya would do. Tyta sighed.

She would not have her sister’s luck. Moyra had been the pretty, lively sort. The clever sort. The determined sister, willing to do anything to escape their father’s keep, even wed Flement Brax, who as a third son had little enough to give. Had she applied herself, she might have received better offers, but for some odd reason, Morya had insisted that it had to be Brax or no one. Thus their father, glad to have one less mouth to feed, had agreed to an obscenely early wedding, which accounted for kith and kin pouring their way in from every which way.

Tyta did not fall into the embrace of slumber a second time, no matter how still she kept. Her mind was whirling with possibilities. Brax was bound to bring enough kin of his own to satisfy convention. If so she could slip back to her bedchamber before long. One Frey less would go unnoticed, she told herself, finally unable to lie still a moment longer. With that particular thought ringing in her head, she abandoned Perwyn to his sleep, moving behind the wide Yi Tian screen which she had previously shared with her sister. It was an old, threadbare thing, no doubt acquired during her father’s youth. Its garish shade was a much needed splash of colour in the otherwise dull tones surrounding Tyta. That did not mean she appreciated the bold, gaudy dyes. Morya had loved them, dreaming she would have a screen just like that one in her own future home.

Wasting little time with the cool water in the basinet, Tyta laved the night’s grime away with firm strokes. She drew away her night-garb, allowing it to fall to the ground. A clean chemise had been draped over the screen, its bottom hanging behind the protective panel. She recognised it as one of her sister’s, one she would no longer be needing, it appeared.

It fit her as well as any of Morya’s clothing ever had, dragging upon the ground. She hurriedly put on her kirtle, tying the gilded girdle with deft fingers in spite of lacking decent light. Her hair she brushed with equally steady fingers, wondering not for the first time at her ill-fortune. She could not permit herself to dwell on it. If the gods were kind, there would be need of hands in the kitchens and she might spend her morning there. Might be even break her fast at the Cook’s side with none the wiser to her plans.

Mornings at the towers were accompanied by the general hustle and bustle so many souls crammed into one keep produced. While not all the members of her family saw fit to rise along with the sun, a goodly number of them did, which meant she had quite a few greetings to bestow on her way down to the kitchens.

She paused near her fallen brother Whalen and rested her hand against his shoulder, patting gently. “Shall I get you some of that brew for sore heads?” His already green tinged colour deepened as he shook his head. “It would make the pain go away.”

“Leave him be,” Lothar intervened, grabbing at her arm in order to drag her away. “’Tis just what he deserves for indulging. Go now with our brother.” She’d not expected such a sentiment from Lothar of all men, but seeing as Whalen took no aid and she could not do more to curb his ache, she did take herself off, Jammos being the one to escort her.

The middle brother, he looked none too pleased with the assigned task, but kept pace with her nonetheless, for one seeming cautious. Unlike Lothar, however, he refrained from grabbing at her, preferring to stand close by as some of the early risen guests walked the corridors.

Scurrying past most, Tyta reached the safety of the kitchens where Cook remonstrated one of the servant girls who had done the Seven knew what. For her part, she slipped past and made a grab for one of the abandoned aprons before joining a few of the women near a great cauldron.

Frey weddings were, by and large, boisterous affairs just as likely to end in bloodshed and they were to end in merriment. As such, food was lavish and drink was plenty. How else was a good mummery to be enjoyed? Tyta snorted her disgust at that particular thought. The truth was that none of Ser Brax’s kin was likely to wed, but being as both of his brothers still drew breath, good coin had been saved on her sister’s dowry and the bride price was more than enough for a great feast.

Before long she was presented with  freshly baked rolls by a distracted Cook whose grumbling, in spite of its strident tones, was a sign of care. In fact, at times she did believe some servants had more affection for the children than their own father. The mothers, it had to be said, disappeared with too much frequency for anyone to count on their affection. Tyta took her leave of the women and their cauldron so she might sit closer to the great roaring fire burning bright and enjoy her meal.

It would have been undoubtedly bright of her that she ought not to linger overlong else someone would come in search of her. Alas, Tyta was much too pleased with the relative safety of the kitchens to pay that much mind and she did find Lothar’s arrival surprising. Her brother commanded her attendance in the great hall and she, self-effacing and meek enough, with just enough trust in him to know he would not deliberately push her in harm’s way, obeyed. Thus it was that she came upon her sister, cold Edwyn and Black Walder.

The icy stare of Ryman’s firstborn tore through her. “Still clinging to Cook’s skirts,” he teased. In spite of his voice which could be even called cordial, she remained stiff and formal before him, responding that she hoped she might in some small measure aid in the celebrations. “Best you see to the guests then.”

“Do not mind him, sweet sister. ‘Tis my wedding and you are certainly welcome to play any part you wish.” Playfully leaning in, Morya put on a good show for the audience, “Just as long as you remember to stand up with me.”

“I could not possibly forget.” Bereft of talents such as her sister’s, Tyta strived merely to keep fright from her voice when she realised Black Walder took her measure as well, his eyes careful in their dissection. He had no words for her. Not that she would have wished for any. A look was fair more than enough to turn her stomach. Nonetheless, she excused herself to see to the lady of the house who had recently delivered a babe.

Bethany Rosby sat in a comfortable looking high chair, her colour high, her laughter gay. She was not a particularly spiteful step-mother, and Tyta doubted she had the wit for it in any case. But she was demanding in her own way, unable to abide poor humours or harsh words out of those around her. As such, her approach was met with a pleasant enough mien and an invitation to sit on the cushion placed upon the first step of the dais. A long table would be placed there when came the time for feasting.

Tyta sat, fanning her skirts out with care as Lady Bethany’s hand found its way to the top of her head. “Steer clear of your nephew, if you would,” the woman cautioned, no doubt able to recognise ignoble intentions as well as any other. “Kin you may be, but he would be forgiven for forgetting.” While she would not; aye, that was the way of it. She took refuge at her step-mother’s feet, grateful for that bit of aid.

The gathering of Freys wiled the hours away until riders were announced. At that point all women were sent up to fuss over the bride, led merrily by Lady Bethany herself, whose tinkling laughter filled the halls. Morya kept close to their step-mother, linking her arm with Tyta’s. Younger nieces chattered behind them, amiable voices delivering praise and little envious sighs alike. Needless to say, Morya looked  set to burst from such pride and preened before her audience.

The younger girls were sent to their play as the older cousins set to washing Morya in a tub filled with hot water, doubtlessly carried up by servants while they’d lingered in the great hall. Tyta carefully washed her sister’s hair, smiling as the rebellious curls were tamed, somewhat, by the added weight of water. Lady Bethany had placed herself on a low stool and was making approving noises, presumably regarding her step-daughter’s fine form. A true meeting of their parent’s superior qualities, Morya had only to blush at the compliments.

Once she’d been washed and dried with a great sheet, the bride was tugged away onto her bed where their nieces combed with care so as to help with the drying. The lady of the house was giving advice on how to better tie the laces so no time need be wasted when came time for the bedding.

Coos and giggled escaped tee maidens seated behind Morya, but they were quickly shushed with a stern glance from the woman. She explained, in plain terms, the dealings of husbands and wives, adjuring the lot of them to pay attention, lest they prove to be poor wives. Tyta had attended a similar talk on a like occasion and was gratified to learn that there were no great differences between the two sources as far as the crucial aspects were concerned. She was also glad when Lady Bethany gave her and Morya a moment to themselves, claiming the other girls in a bid to find something or another.

Unable to help herself, Tyta cleared her throat, “How can you suffer to lie with a man such as Ser Flement?” She thought with some horror about those wide hands of his upon Morya’s slender frame. Her sister might well be tall, but she was about as sturdy as a reed.

Morya gave a small shrug. “He might not be the handsomest face and I grant you he is rather lacking in gallantry, but he is willing to offer me a comfortable place on his arm.”

Pursing her lips, Tyta did not dissemble. “Others might have been glad as well, had you but attempted to engage them.”

Her sister laughed. “He despises my father, did you know? He will refuse me visits back here once we are wed.” Drawing Tyta to her, Morya whispered excitedly, “And best of all, he had agreed that we may attend court. I mean to have you with me.”

Understanding dawned upon her. A wet, garbled sound escaped her throat as her eyes filled with tears. Aunt Genna had been kind enough to see Morya to the Rock, which was how she met Ser Flement to begin with, after all. Her sister patted her back soothingly. “He is a man who will lie down his life for me, of that I am certain. And I need no lesser if I am to finally be rid of these cretins we call kin.”

“You needn’t take me with you, though. I am certain you needn’t the imposition.” Ser Flement had not struck her as a particularly kind man. “It would grieve me to be the reason behind a rift.”

“You needn’t worry on that score. You will be my companion on this journey and that is that.” Her poor sister, so clever and so kind. Sometimes Tyta did forget about that core of her sibling’s. Yet another point which underscored their differences. “Now come, help me with that chemise over there.”   

It was well that they managed to see Morya into the garment before the return of their kin. The girls, just as amused as before, found a great deal of matters to laugh and giggle over, providing background noise as they all worked upon preparing Morya for her great moment.

Lady Bethany pulled Tyta to her once they were done, claiming to have need of a steadying arm. Still the woman’s inferior in height, she did pray there would be no need to do more than hold her arm. She feared any attempt to keep her upright might send them both sprawling to the ground. In spite of her words, however, the new mother had a firm step.

Candles lit the great hall, the cavernous space seeming to absorb all light. Their septon was standing by the end of the space, a Seven-Pointed Star under his arm, speaking softly to the husband-to-be. Morya’s face lit up as soon as she met Ser Flement’s eyes and Tyta thought she saw a softening around the man’s mouth. Though she found it difficult to decide whether it was real or simply her mind conjuring signs of affection where there were none.

Whatever the case, she kept her position close to Lady Bethany throughout the ceremony, doing her best to ignore the heated stare of Black Walder who was grinning in that queer way of his. All too soon, the solemn vows were exchanged, wine was toasted and cheers raised to the newlyweds. The fiddlers tuned their instruments, the thin melody of flutes indicated guests were to make merry. Tyta was pressed into the waiting arms of Whalen who was pleased enough to dance.

One of Ser Flement’s brothers stood up with her after. The middle one, he was, and quite courteous. “When shall we be dancing at your wedding, fair maiden?” he asked conversationally, his eyes trained upon her face, almost as though she were of great interest in whatever abysmally flat answer she could muster.

“I would not presume to plan a wedding in the absence of suitors,” she managed, somewhat chagrined at the knowledge she hadn’t her sister’s good fortune, poor though she might consider the match.

“Modesty is a most becoming adornment.” She would have told him her words had naught to do with diffidence and more to do with the sad truth that plain, dowerless maidens were no one’s first choice of wife. A philosophical endeavour, considering such matters was one of her less favoured habits. She offered a smile to her partner before he was obliged to give his attention to another young lady just as eager to dance as she had been.

In retrospect, Tyta ought to have hurried to her brother’s side or to Lady Bethany’s. That she went in search of a drink proved to be her downfall for it put her in the path of Black Walder. Tall and wiry, he set himself before her, bowing to her. She had to respond to his gesture and thus found herself invited to yet another round of dancing, only this time she found little pleasure in it for Black Walder commandeered her as he would his horse, firm and unyielding.

“Last I saw you, you were a pudgy little thing,” he noted, the hand at her waist patting her side gently.  “And now look at you. A woman grown.”

Unable to think of anything to say, she glanced away from him, long enough to catch Lothar’s eye. Silently begging for his help, she was gratified when he sent their middle brother after her. He managed to extricate her from Black Walder and his attentions, depositing her at Lady Bethany’s side with a firm order that she was not to move from her side. Tyta would have been willing to sew their kirtles together if she thought it might keep her safely out of her nephew’s way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally made some time to write about my fave crack ship.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

Evidently, Tyta did her best to avoid any further contact with Black Walder for the reminder of the festivities, even though she felt the man’s gaze upon her at intervals. Surrounded by sister unnumbered and more amenable kin, the danger was low enough. Even the loathsome toad that was Black Walder would not set upon a woman in full view of family and acquaintances.  Thus did Tyta end in company with a very cheerful cousin or another, a woman who’s name she had forgotten and could not be persuaded to remember though they spoke at lengths about the cakes Cook had prepared.

“I hear you are to join your sister after the wedding,” her companion said softly after a time. The song had died down for the time, in order to allow guests time to enjoy their food before they took more exercise. Tyta nodded, making some noncommittal response, for the benefit of conversation more so than from agreement. Much as she loved the notion, a man would rather spend time with his bride unperturbed by an unfortunate sister. “How generous of your sister’s husband.” Such observations did not help her mood any.

By nature not without pride, for she was ever conscious of the fact her mother drew from a long and ancient line of noble blood and had been much squandered upon a man such as her father. Alas, though her blood was as noble as any lady’s, she had been without a great dowry and never a woman with ambition; Lady Alyssa Blackwood had accepted her marriage with disgusting ease, even knowing what sort of creature her husband was, and would undoubtedly continue to be.

The equanimity and uniformity of disposition had served her well nevertheless and she had lived with quiet dignity, if not comfort. She had loved her children well and done her duty by those dependent on her with enough diligence that she was generally remembered as having been a good sort of wife, given to improving the life at the towers as much as that could be. And she had been a proud sort of woman, instilling a like pride in her own children, in spite of the fact that her family had as soon forgotten her as cloaks had been exchanged. Tyta recalled without much difficulty the usual cast of her face, a vague smile upon her lips and a cool look in her eyes.

She supposed ‘twas this pride, with foundations deep into the history of their realm, that held her upright through the many injuries brought to her person and character into her father’s home. She’d determined long ago that if she could not be free of the people, she might at least wall herself away from the most exceptionable of characters. Indeed, Tyta could not bear the thought that these people, vain, uncouth, unlearned and callous, should bring her down to their level, as she could not hope to elevate them to hers. Long had she felt the changes within herself slowly but surely bringing more and more of a semblance between herself and the rest of them. Her heart hardened, her ire forever engaged; were it not for the babes in need of care and love, she feared she’d have long since become the exact sort of woman who would be both plain and cross.

Tyta suspected her plainness, though weighing more in the eyes of men more so than her crossness, would nevertheless be all the better brought to attention by a lack of placidity on her part. In consequence, she smiled at her kin and assured her that Morya’s husband was a very generous soul and she was quite pleased to go with them if they so happened to allow it, though she did not think it the case herself. It was better to keep these matters confused.

The discussion met its end upon a certain song beginning to play. Tyta drew away, for she knew the woman to be a married one and a sort who’d no doubt take great pleasure in robbing the new husband of his garb as they led him to the bedchamber with customary good cheer. Retreating to a deserted corner, she sat herself at lengths with at one of the long tables, stretching her legs out in a decidedly unladylike fashion so as to better admire the new doeskin slippers her sister gifted her with during the earlier part of the day, before the food had been brought out. ‘Twas, she promised, the least of the gifts she meant to bestow upon her sister.

Watching the proceedings with attention she observed some of her brothers in a corner, their faces reddened with drink and good cheer, their voices loud. They seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves, for whatever reason not quarrelling. A welcome, but unusual sight. Her gaze moved to others in time, seeking to entertain herself with guessing what manners of thought passed through these people’s heads. She attached to most lofty thoughts, though she did not believe it in the least. For the most part she was ignored by one and all, content though to be invisible now that her sister was gone and her husband had followed her. Whatever the morrow should bring, she was glad, truly so, that one of them had escaped the odious keeping of their sire and the company of their coarser brothers.

In excellent spirits upon such thoughts, she found her foot tapping in time with the beat of a lively tune, swaying gently to one side and the other. It was a song she knew well enough to hum along under her breath, a quiet, breathy sound. It was a song her mother had loved as well. It even brought back a particular memory of wide dark eyes and cherry-red lips and a promise that someday they would all dance to the song at Tyta’s wedding. Alas, her mother was dead and buried and her wedding by no means a thing she might hope for.

By the end of the night, her mood was of the highest quality and her escape assured for the fact that Black Walder had collapsed from drink at his own table and rested even as she left uneasily upon the hard wood. Her feet carried her, meantime, to the relative safety of the nursery where she climbed into the great bed with some of the older children of whom one awoke to greet her with joy.     

It was with some apprehension that she awoke once more. She washed and dressed herself as quietly as possible and left the children to their sleep and wetnurses and other servant women left to care for them. Once more she found that many of the family still slept. It was to be expected.

She found none of her own brothers about and only one of Ser Brax’s brothers about. He stopped to speak to her, was courteous as one could wish and gave her some hope that his brother did indeed mean to remove to the King’s court as soon as possible. He left her before long and she found herself going out, in hopes of finding a quiet spot in which to lie and watch the skies.

Once removed far enough from the confines of the towers and sure to be quite equally far from any of her kindred, Tyta gave herself over to the joys of nature, finding a patch of soft grass to sit into beneath a tepid sun. Summer would soon bleed into winter if she was not much mistaken. A fat cloud rolled by, its pudgy form curling becomingly around a shaft of sunlight breaking through its middle. She smiled at the image presented and looked away momentarily, relaxing into her seat. When she tired of sitting, she stretched herself out, rolling onto her side.

There she lied, in the cool, soft grass, caressed by the light of a pallid sun. Time passed without her and her stomach squeezed before long, with hunger and unsatisfied need, but she dreaded returning to the Twins. She wished for yet more time in her present position and would not trade it for all the sconces Cook was sure to have out by that time. She licked her lips in anticipation of the treat and concluded that she would have some as soon as her courage railed and she found enough strength to walk back.

Before that, however, she was quite surprised to hear the sound of hooves stamping into firm earth. Readily climbing to her feet, she considered the direction they were coming from and the possibility of avoiding them. Blinking fast, she dismissed the possibility even two figures appeared in the distance. With some luck, they’d pass her by and give her nary a thought. Tyta was not so ignorant as to be insensible of the danger of at present.

As luck would have it, though, the two strangers, garbed in boiled leather and chainmail, no signs to distinguish themselves by, stopped near her, setting their steeds into easy step, their intention to have words clear. Her appearance would protect her to some degree, she surmised, seeing that neither man made to dismount. She observed likewise that they travelled light and wondered whether they were hedge knights.

“Ho there,” spoke one to the other with a chuckle. The speaker was dark of look, though not unpleasant. Something about the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and their dark, steady colour along with a good-natured visage gave her hope he presented no danger to her. “You’ve startled the lady.”

And lady she should be, though she jumped at the appreciation. Straightening herself, she watched the second man watch her. “Apologies,” he finally spoke, holding one hand up in amicable contrition. “Rather far afield from the Twins, you are, lady.” Dumbly, she wondered how he knew from which house she came, then swore at her own stupidity.

“Not quite so far,” she answered; Tyta did not know whether she spoke coolly to them or nay. Her mind was more so engaged with exploring this second rider. Fearful, however, that out in the open they should be easily observed she began looking about. Her fear did not go unnoticed. “In any event, good sers, you ought to be on your way if you’ve no business at the Twins.”

“Oh ho; quite the tongue she has on her.” Tyta had not meant to be impertinent. She began explaining herself in an instant, almost missing the amused smile stretching the man’s as she muddled her way through a somewhat weak endeavour at putting them on guard.

The second rider dismounted. Tyta held her words back for a moment before attempting to explain yet again. “Lady, pray tell us by which way we may get faster to Riverrun, if you would.” That shut her up effectively. Riverrun, she considered and wondered at their direction. Still, it was no concern of hers, thus she answered as well as she could that they had best go by way of Oldstones if they did not care to meet thieves on the road.

The younger man, the one holding his horse’s reins as he stood before her began to speak, but was interrupted by his companion, letting him know that someone approached. A cool chill made its way down her spine and Tyta jumped, moving around the man before her behind a bit of shrubbery, knowing very well how silly she must look.

Still, it was good of her to have done so, for she recognised Black Walder’s voice as he inquired at the intention of the trespassers. They explained themselves in a short manner, stating they were merely resting their horses and that they made for Riverrun. Walder, not yet satisfied, inquired whether they’d seen a young lady about, giving of all things her own description. Holding her breath, Tyta could only pray they’d not give her away. Her heart in her throat, she struggled to listen.

“Nay; we’ve seen no one of such description.” It was then that Walder took his leave of them and she could breathe easy once more. “You may come out; he’s ridden off now.” Shamed-faced at her behaviour, she made her way out of her hiding, lips curled downwards. It had been her terror at the thought of the man catching her that had addled her wits.  

There was no smile, no amusement in their faces. The darker one climbed down as well. She understood instinctively that they took her reaction in such serious a manner as to not laugh. “Pray, why do you come near me?” she asked at the approach of the light-haired man.

“Only so I may help you into the saddle.” Protests met his words. She tried every reason she could think of to refuse the aid, though she suspected that if her kin should ride back and catch her on the road, she was in truly deep trouble. Still, the strangers would not hear of it, and yet she knew not if she might trust them better. Which was better; the devil one knew or the one a body was ignorant of?

 She saw herself hoisted up in a man’s saddle, a bit too large for her, the horse beneath her certainly stretching at her comfort.  She endured it, however, for there was no horn she might hold onto and ride with her legs over to the side. Her knees gripped at the beast instinctively.

The two men led their horses at a brisk pace, but took care to start an easily conversation in which they endeavoured to attract her by dint of question and comment. She replied as any lady would, considerate, but not entirely engaged. She kept reminding herself, even as the Twins came into clear view, that she knew them not.

Persuaded in the end to thank them by both conscience and good breeding, she asked after their names. They refused to furnish her with anything by which she might identify either. No incentive swayed them and in fact the younger of the two protested that any man of honour would have done as they had. Tyta doubted that; her brother would have made mischief for the poor creature where she unknown to them. Still she said naught to that, but applied herself to rewarding them once more.

“You must insist no more upon it.” The dark-haired man sketched her a light bow. “We’ve no more time to linger, lady, but thank you for the kind thoughts.”

They left her near enough to the keep that no danger might befall her without some eyes coming upon her. She was thus forced to relinquish any notion of rewarding their kindness and returned within the keep, to the embrace of her newly risen sister and the good-brother she’d gained.

Ser Flemment was not as courteous as his brother had been, more engrossed in his food than in the company. Still, he was civil and she did not suppose she might ask for more. Her thoughts, in any event, she found were too bent on the two men who’d rescued her. Morya saw her too clearly by half though. She pulled her aside and began asking questions.

Not one to hide needlessly from her sister, she explained in little enough detail what had befallen her without the keep’s walls. Her sister, half-railing at Black Walder’s daring, half-intrigued at the two strangers listened with baited breath until she had finished her piece.

“Why that worm; I shall ask my husband’s brothers to keep abreast of you from now on until we can safely remove you from Walder’s presence. Fear now, I shall to it that you remain unmolested.” The effusive nature of her sister’s words along with her own shaken equilibrium, Tyta allowed herself to hug her sister and hide her face in the other’s shoulder.

“I was so frightened when I thought he’d found me.” Morya hugged her back, whispering that there was naught she need fear. Tyta believed that her sister meant it. “It is so very vexing to know he has fixed me for his next pursuit. Can he not go to some woman who wishes his attention?”

Walder was an odd sort of beast. His name suggested not only darkness of features, but of character. He was, by all means, a most unsuitable sort of man for any woman to be left near. It was in his nature to cause the veriest sort of mischief. He delighted, she did not doubt, in his conquests even more so when they were hard-won. But then she would rather drown herself than have her person added to his list.

“We shall stay a few days more. But I mean to speak to father this very day about my plans. I doubt he shall oppose them, for if you are in my care then you are not in his.” Tyta agreed. “And we will go to Court, as I said.” They parted one from the other. Tyta struggled to respond with a smile to Morya’s own. “Now come; you must have some more to eat and tell me more about these rescuers of yours, for I am sure by their manner they cannot have been hedge knights.”

“How so?” she questioned, following along.

“Why, their very manner.” Morya scoffed. “Hedge knights are an uncouth lot who’d have been as likely to jump you as to save you.” Tyta shuddered. Her sister, catching the reaction, assured her that it was not likely hedge knights would come about these parts. “Were they handsome?”

“One was dark and the other fair. The first was of middling-age, to be sure, but well-formed and well-kept. The second was younger; handsomer than the first.” Morya declared herself unsatisfied with the description. It lacked detail, it told her little, and she wanted more.

“Well, I have told you all that I found of import to notice.” But her sister did not seem to hear.

“No matter, you should know them again if you saw them. And at Court I do not doubt, you shall see them if the gods are kind.” As to how her kin had come to that thought, she did not know.    

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Your thoughts hold you captive,” Arthur started, looking away from the small fire’s dancing flames. Oswell took a swing out of the wineskin before handing it over. “What do you think of?” Not one to lie his way out of an uncomfortable situation, it never occurred to him to jest or pretend ignorance upon the matter.

“That girl,” he answered softly before putting the wineskin away from him without having taken a sip. “I cannot help thinking I might have done more.” The trouble was, they chased after another girl altogether and much as he wished to see the Frey lady again, even he was not foolish enough to believe it would achieve aught.

One of the thin branches they’d fed to the fire crackled and popped, breaking the ensuing silence. “What more could you have done? Only way to save a wench from that is to either wed her or take her to mistress.” His companion snorted. “And that one, she’s too cold to carry either with grace, especially the latter. Such a creature is best admired from afar.”  

Arthur frowned. “I would need to see a whole lot more of her to decide upon her nature. As for wedding or taking a mistress; you mistake my words. I merely thought it a pity that a young girl should endure such, is all.” Arthur did not habitually lie; he did, however, keep some things to himself.

Something about the unknown young woman had struck him. He could not place it, nor name the moment it happened. Might be aught in her gaze; something familiar about her in any event, which drove him to distraction. He thought of Rhaegar’s confession and wondered if his friend had some sense after all. Like a pebble in the shoe, indeed, he considered, brushing a hand over his face in a bid to dismiss all thoughts of her.

“Plenty of young girls going through worse,” Whent pointed out quietly. Kingsguards they might be, but both of them had been to enough brothels to know such houses held both willing and unwilling. “Haven’t seen you chomping at the bit to save them.” It wasn’t an accusation. Not precisely, as far as he could tell. But it was a warning. “Best you turn your thoughts away from the matter, lad.” He nodded, for he too saw the wisdom in that.

They did not stay up much longer, as they planned to ride out early, might be even before dawn. He wrapped his cloak tight about him in a bid to stop the elements from souring his rest. And the exhaustion of a full day’s ride took its toll. His mind, however, remained very much alive, taunting him with a stray thought here and there until he banished her image altogether from him and forced his mind upon another direction altogether. It was much easier to consider the danger his friend exposed himself to by having the Northerner girl brought to King’s Landing of all places. Still and all, Rhaegar was not to be persuaded otherwise, thus all he could do was accept ‘twas for the best.

Sleep released him from the clutch of conscious deliberation. Yet sleep also lifted all holds he’d placed upon his thoughts. Unbidden, torturous images of the bygone day twisted into something dark and malevolent, taking place before the stunned eyes and impotent reach of a frozen statue. He woke well before they were to set out, bathed in sweat and trembling gently. That was what come to giving situations one could not change too much thought. Clenching hid teeth against the discomfort of movement, he forced himself to his feet.

A small brook a little ways away from camp served its purpose admirable, driving sleep, memory and uncomfortable salty dampness away. He did not drink of the brook, no matter how refreshing the waters seemed, contenting himself to note it might serve them upon their return as well. Returning to camp, he found Whent still sleeping, thus had little to do but seat himself before the dying embers of their once roaring fire and rekindle it. He worked slowly, thoughts wandering to and fro, taking no particular rode. Might be, he considered, all worry had been purged out of him through those terrible visions. In any event, he was left fair able to see to the morning tasks until Oswell awoke and grumbled his way through a greeting.

They ate some salted meat and drank from the wineskin to wash the taste away. The only trouble with being on the road as they were was the food. ‘Twas always poor tasting and more than reason enough for a man to wish himself back into the embrace of civilisations. Arthur had to console himself with the knowledge that they would be that soon enough, if all went well. One could but hope she-wolves of Winterfell had some pity for knights of the realm as well as she did for her father’s bannermen.        

They were riding off once more after having doused the fire and gathered their possessions. The cheery gale of what would be a fine day accompanied them for a little while before dying down. They spoke little between themselves, each well-entertained with his own thoughts, Arthur imagined. Oswell did not speak much even when in a pleasant mood, although he was known to have a slightly twisted wit which he put to good use when he so desired. And Arthur himself spoke only when he thought it necessary to say something when words would gain him aught. It was, he expected, the nature of serving a higher authority. One did not question the King unless one wanted to be a head shorter upon the end of it.

A more tiresome situation, however, was their master’s penchant to turn wild with his moods. If one could not have a kind King, at least a sane one would be required to live in peace. The North, Lady Lyanna Stark had promised Rhaegar the North. Arthur prayed the gods she delivered on her word and delivered the court at the same time.

They drove the horses hard, until the poor creatures panted with exhaustion and they stood as near to Riverrun as they dared. Oswell was setting up camp, careful in his movements. He left the task of watching for the lady to Arthur, who was only too glad to do so. In faith, as the closer of Rhaegar’s companions, he’d been thrown together with the Northerner lady more so than his brother-in-arms.

At long last she appeared, riding what looked to be a dainty mare. Garbed in the muted colours of her homeland, she wore her hair for the first time that he’d seen in Southron fashion, braids coming together in intricate patterns. The lady hailed him as soon as her eyes found his form. Her arm shot up, hand waving gently. He could not make out her expression, but though he saw a brief smile flash across it before it disappeared.

From there on she had but to  reach them, which was accomplished with speed. Oswell too came forth to give greeting as she drew her mare to a halt, dismounting without aid. Her skirts flew heavenwards with her movement, allowing them a glimpse of breeches clad legs. “Sers, glad I am to see you, for I fear we may not leave quite as we have planned.”

“Whatever do you mean, lady?” questioned his senior, inviting her to have a seat on a flat boulder. She nodded her head in gracious acceptance, seating herself down, her skirts fanned out about her. Arthur, for lack of a better thing to do, offered her the wineskin. She took that as well, but downed only a small sip.

“It seems Lord Tully’s squire has developed some form of violent affection for my future good-sister. That is why I am ever so glad for the delays. Brandon is difficult in the best of circumstances; it would be poorly done to test him in a moment of fury.” She explained to them how Lord Baelish’s son had claimed with impunity that he’d had Lady Catelyn and furthermore that he wished to wed her. She then allowed that while her brother had at first been reluctant to challenge the claim, and at that she gave a smile of hidden meaning, relented in the end and picked up a sword, bloodying his foe so bad, he was not expected to rise out of bed for a long time yet.  “The bride’s father even now tries to restore the bridges those careless words have burned; but Lady Catelyn took offence at my brother’s hesitation and my brother, I fear, is not quite sure of her.”

“I do not understand, lady; would this not be the best moment to depart, when all eyes are on your brother and his bride?” Arthur asked, seating himself in the grass, accepting the wineskin she held out to him.

“Normally I should agree. But I have sent a raven to my father beseeching his presence as soon as it may be had. He shall arrive soon. If His Grace could only be persuaded to wait a while longer; the wedding will provide him with even further support.” She moved her legs beneath her skirts, as though trying to shift position, yet never truly did so. “Do you think His Grace might be persuaded?”

“If he can be made to see the wisdom of it, certainly.” But could he. Arthur wondered as he mulled over Oswell’s words. It was true that Rhaegar desired the power of the North behind him; it was also true that his friend, in true Targaryen fashion, had already decided precisely how  Lady Lyanna fit in his scheme and patience, he feared, was not one of Rhaegar’s virtues when it came to matters of the heart.

Relief played across the woman’s face, as she was not privy to his worries. “He seemed so very bent on his own course of action last we spoke.” Of course, he had to keep in mind that Rhaegar was equally capable of delaying his own fulfilment should there be pressing need for that. “I know him not half as well as I wish I did. Brandon is easier to predict, however, and by my judgement it would be best to give this matter some time to settle.”

Rhaegar should be arriving soon as well. They’d taken different paths so as to better confuse those who would follow. Arthur knew he would at least listen to the whole of it before deciding how to proceed. Lady Lyanna meantime fashioned herself into a pleasant mood before standing to her feet. “I fear I have lingered overlong. I will send word come nightfall, if I can. If now, I shall ride here on the morrow once more.”

Whatever it was that she could tell them on the morrow, it was at least something; something to do and something to concentrate their attention upon. Arthur stood, helping her back in the saddle. For while Lady Lyanna was an expert in climbing her way down, she seemed less adept at mounting. That or her diminutive height; might be both. In any event she was off before long, leaving behind only a trail of dust and crushed grass.

Left with only Whent for company yet again, he turned a questioning gaze upon the man. “Do you think Rhaegar has lost his wits?” It was a plan with many pitfalls, not the least of which was his friend’s supporters at court taking exception to his actions once they found out.

“He’ll regain them soon enough, I daresay. His head, on the other hand, is another matter altogether.” For a moment Arthur suffered under the weight of confusion. The meaning dawned upon him soon enough though and he gave a shake of the head. Oswell raised one eyebrow only. “Now then, let us make certain all is in order with the camp.” Arthur nodded and turned to his work.

Rhaegar, as was his wont, arrived only with the nightfall. Garbed in cloth befitting a travelling knight, hair hidden away, he still did not look quite common. A failing his friend was never able to rectify, no matter how hard he tried. “Ho there,” he spoke in greeting, dismounting in one swift move. “How goes it?”

“As well as can be expected,” Arthur answered, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “We thought you mightn’t appear until the morrow.” His friend shrugged before explaining the road had not been quite as smooth as he’d expected, but that he had, in the end, managed to lose his pursuers. He then predictably asked after the state of his Lady Lyanna.

“Well enough when we saw her. Worried for her brother,” Oswell informed the Prince before dropping down in his spot by the fire. “Said she’d send word this night if she could and if not would ride to us on the morrow. Brave lass that one, or very foolish. Not at all like Arthur’s lady.”

Apparently put at ease by those words, Rhaegar questioned no further upon that path. He turned his attention to those last few words. “Arthur and a lady, you say? Now this I must hear.” In spite of his protests, which in hindsight, only served to further engage his friend’s attention, Oswell repeated all the details of their encounter with the Frey lady at the Twins. Rhaegar listened with obvious attention, content to ask naught until the speaker was done.

“Say, Arthur, is your lady a great beauty then, that you foresee battling many an admirer?” He teased, as Rhaegar did when in a good mood. Doubtlessly, he was thinking of his she-wolf and Robert Baratheon and the means by which he’d distracted his distant kin at the tourney.

“Is your lady a great beauty, Your Grace?” he turned the question upon him, not precisely made glad by the direction they conversation took. Rhaegar was free to pursue the object of his affection, dubious though that freedom might be.

“I have yet to meet her equal, if you must know; though I confess I might be biased in that regard.” They shared a chuckle over the sentiment before Rhaegar grew serious once more. “In this world you had best allow yourself to dream, else there is naught really to live for.” It was his turn to clap Arthur on the shoulder. “Give me some time and this some further thought, and if then you wish to pursue the matter further, you will have what you need of me.”

He sighed. What was there to think about? “I have taken my vows.”

“Doesn’t stop the other Dornishman,” Oswell noted. “Don’t see why it should stop you. Just don’t get the wench with child.”

“How is that fair to her?” Women wanted children, in his experience. In fact, for some it was more than enough reason to go through with a distasteful union. He thought of the Frey girl and wondered upon her thought on the matter then chastised herself. Why should he care? He was not taking her to mistress.

“You are not forcing her,” the other Kingsguard pointed out. “And she does not seem to be comfortable in the midst of her family. In any event, Your Grace, you had best explain to this one that his ideals are all well and good for the prayer-book, but out there,” he gestured to the open expanse before them, “is the real world.”

“Circumstances will never be quite perfect, that is true,” Rhaegar commented after a time. “That is true. But it is equally true that some men hold their ideals more dear than anything else. Arthur, you are the only one who knows best in this and you will ultimately live with the consequences.” A brief moment of silence followed before it was slowly filled by a warming sentiment. “As your friend, I stand with you irrespective of your choice.”

“I need time to think it through.” He’d liked the Frey girl, more so than he’d liked any other woman at first glance, but he did not know her. Unlike Rhaegar he could not simply decide in one moment that he’d gift her his heart. Was she even trustworthy? Would she not beak her offering between her hands? It was too much of a risk to be taken on so small an acquaintance.

He looked between the two other men who had moved on to another subject altogether. The company would be nice, he supposed, a warm embrace to return to. And yet with nary a tie to be recognised throughout the realm, was he not putting her more at risk than not? He pondered the matter further, pushing away the unpleasant thought.

Rhaegar, of all men, would of course stand by him, not only for their years of friendship, he imagined, but because their situations were of similar enough nature. Rhaegar had ideals equally as strong as his, but it seemed not so difficult for him to break with them. He decided he would ask after Whent had gone to sleep.

And so he did. Rhaegar had an interesting reply to say the least. “Some values are gifted to us by the gods and some we fashion on our own. In all, however, we must remain true to ourselves. If the gods are indeed righteous, they will understand my actions. And if they are not, then they must not be gods and one needn’t concern himself with their judgement. Truth may bring you pain and aches, but there is an end in sight. A lie, on the other hand, functions only in the company of other lies.”

“What if your sire had taken to the Princess, though?” he questioned. “Would you have done the same?”

“Might be not. I cannot say.” He sighed. “I tell myself she will be happier in her native Dorne, without the pressure of court.”

“One can hope she will.” He also hoped she agreed to Rhaegar’s plan speedily. Matters should not be allowed to drag on.  

 

 

         

 

  

 


End file.
